


Most properly served

by miss_Carrot



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Aliens, Family, Gen, Growing Up, Non-Chronological, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 08:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14351763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_Carrot/pseuds/miss_Carrot
Summary: The room is full of Significant beings who carry the fate of the known universe on their shoulders, and they are all looking at her.Kalr Five stands there, just outside the chamber, and all she carries is a tray with a tea set.Written for lotsofdragons for the Republic of Two Systems gift exchange 2018, for the promptKalr Five serving tea flawlessly.Beneficial Independence Day, Citizen!





	Most properly served

All is as Amaat wills it, the fate of mortals nothing but a mere toss of coins. Kalr Five knows better than to believe in destiny, especially her own. Next to all the greatness in front of her, what is she but a mere sprinkle of stardust, her existence bearing no gravity at all. And yet.

And yet, when she stops in the entryway to the great chamber, she cannot but wonder if the Goddess herself paved this path with the spinning omens, just for her.

*

Ettan receives her first tea set for her birthday, when she becomes four standard years old. A flask and six cups made out of thin plastiglass in electric blue. There are lace-like ornaments at the rim and at the bottom of every cup, painted in gold and white.

They are the most beautiful, exquisite items Ettan has seen in her whole life, and they are to be her own.

“Thank you senior mother, mother, aunt, young aunt,” she whispers, reciting the customary formula, “but one cannot properly accept such a gift.”

Young aunt coos, mother wipes her eyes, and senior mother smiles fondly and insists that Ettan takes the gift, as it is just and proper. Ettan comes to the table and takes each cup in her hand, marvelling at the design and the deep blue colour. Aunt brings some cooled tea and pours it into the flask. Ettan then serves everyone as best as she can, but her hands shake and much of the tea is spilled. No one seems to mind much though, and when she sips the cold tea from her cup, she is so happy that she almost spills the rest on her best dress.

Tea parties in her room become frequent after that – usually she can invite only her dolls, but sometimes also mother and young aunt. When they are there, they teach Ettan the importance of the tea ritual, and how it binds the whole Radch together. She starts to follow their guidance even when they are not with her. Soon enough, she serves her guests in order of importance, as is proper: Pattya the oldest, most battered doll always receives her cup first, even though she is no longer a favourite. There is only water in it, but Ettan knows that only real people deserve real tea, so it doesn’t matter.

But when the birthday of young aunt comes around, it suddenly does matter. Young aunt is always kind to her, visits her tea parties and tells her the stories of the great Radch, so it is only just that Ettan wants to show her kindness in return. She arranges her flask and cups on a tray in the perfect order; then she sneaks into the kitchen and whisks away a handful of tea leaves and a pot of freshly boiled water. The pot is heavy, but she manages to pour the water into her flask without accident.

She carries it all the way to young aunt’s rooms, reciting the birthday wishes in her head. The door opens and Ettan can see her mother, aunt and young aunt sitting in a circle; they pause their chat and smile at her when she enters. She is about to set her tray down and bow properly, when she hears a terrible crack. She screams and drops the tray. It falls down with even more noise.

“Amaat’s grace!”

Her aunt picks her up and checks her arms and face for injuries. Young aunt and mother rush to wipe the half-brewed tea and gather the fragments of the blue plastiglass from the floor. There is huge commotion and lots of yelling about her irresponsibility, and thanks to Amaat that this troublesome child did not come to any harm. Ettan cries throughout the whole ordeal, and so she is soon forgiven, and the matter is forgot.

The blue tea set, shattered to pieces by hot water and her own carelessness, never leaves Ettan’s memory though.

*

The great chamber is full of people – beings – Significant beings, she corrects herself in her head. There is the Fleet Captain, and Sphene, and the Lieutenants of the _Mercy of Kalr_ and other ships. There are Human and Geck Ambassadors to the Presger, and a whole flock of Translators, including Zeiat, and some envoys of the Rrrrrr, and black spider-like creatures which she is told come from the world of the Geck. There are Anaanders Mianaai, three of them: two old, one barely adult. They carry the fate of the known universe on their shoulders and they are all looking at her.

Kalr Five stands there, just outside the chamber, and all she carries is a tray with a tea set.

*

At first Ettan doesn’t notice, but she knows something is up when she asks about it and everyone in the room – including the old servant – just stares at her.

“Why doesn’t aunt eat supper with us anymore?”

There is no answer to that. Her mother and young aunt exchange nervous glances, senior mother pretends she didn’t hear anything, and the servant shakes her head as she walks around the table, changing plates. The silence continues until Ettan starts to worry; she tries to catch her mother’s eyes and asks, her voice suddenly wobbly:

“Is aunt ill?” And then, because the dreadful possibility strikes her out of nowhere, she adds in a whisper: “Is she dead?”

“No, she is well,” says the senior mother, and Ettan shrinks a little in her seat. Drawing senior mother’s attention usually doesn’t mean anything beneficial, and this time is no different. “It is proper that you ask after your aunt, but do you know what is not proper, child?”

“Mentioning the…” Ettan pauses before she says _dead_ again; she gestures Var instead, drops her eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Begging the graceful forgiveness of senior mother, mother, young aunt.”

“Go to the altar and pray so that the Goddess may cleanse your tongue, child,” senior mother says with a sigh, and Ettan wastes no time. She slips away from the table, bows, and rushes to the alcove with the altar of Amaat.

The Goddess smiles benevolently from above even when Ettan finishes her prayers and just stays here, admiring the figures. Amaat is her favorite now, carved out in smooth, dark wood, with lips and eyes and emanations painted in gold. Not so long ago Ettan would have said that the most beautiful one was Imanne, the goddess of rebirth, with her dress adorned with swirls of colourful enamel and scraps of gold foil, and her head full of feathers. But not anymore. Gaudy, young aunt called it when no one else but Ettan was around, and pushed the figurine behind the twin blue stones with carved faces of Yun and Nan. They are old, young aunt explained, dusting them carefully, and very valuable for people who know how to look. Gold doesn’t give things their value, child, she said, age and provenance does.

Ettan understands that now, but she knows something else too. The Imanne figurine came to the household with aunt, and Yun and Nan – with young aunt.

When she goes to the kitchen to finish her supper, she hears the raised voices of mother and young aunt, who are having their evening tea.

“And now Ettan is scared too!” she hears young aunt exclaim, and without much thought she squeezes herself in the tiny space just behind the door. “Such foul display of temper, and what for? Just a small inconvenience!”

“You know it isn’t a small thing for her, Makke,” mother says, and she sounds resigned. “Her house was always very proud of how they kept their tradition even after they progressed to citizenship. To her it matters more than you or I can imagine.”

Young aunt is relentless though, and Ettan can hear the utensils clinking against the tea set.

“Maybe so, but even if you agree with her, tell me that she is not being ridiculous. Hah! Locking herself up in her room, like a damsel in some music drama!” There is so much anger in her voice, so much condescension, that young aunt doesn’t sound like herself anymore. It makes Ettan angry too: she may like young aunt much better than the always grumbling aunt, but sneering like this isn’t just.

“Tell me, sister, how is this proper? How is this beneficial?”

“Calm yourself, Makke,” mother replies and sighs heavily. Then she adds, in a surprisingly cheerful voice: “Ettan, come in and eat your skel, child.”

They pretend that they haven’t talked about aunt when Ettan sits down and picks at her skel.

There is no discussion about aunt in the next few days either, and Ettan knows better than to ask again. But it changes one day when mother calls her down to the kitchen and gestures silence. On the table there is a tea set which Ettan has never seen before: one tall flask, two smaller and flat ones, several saucers, and two cups. All items are decorated in swirls of colourful enamel and rimmed in gold, and it makes Ettan think about the Imanne figurine on the household altar.

“You will take this tray to your aunt’s room,” mother says as she arranges the pieces. In the flat flasks there is fat milk and something that smells like a melted butter. On the saucers there is salt and some dried leaves she doesn’t recognize, and cloves of garlic. “You will bow and very properly offer your aunt this tea.”

Ettan nods automatically, but the smell coming from the tall flask makes her wrinkle her nose.

“But it’s not tea, mother,” she protests. “It stinks like wet leaves, we cannot give that to aunt! And the garlic!” She bows respectfully, but her face is firm. “Asking mother’s graceful benevolence, but one cannot properly give this to aunt.”

She expects a scolding, but mother smiles at her instead and makes a calming gesture.

“You know that all Radchaai drink tea,” she says, and Ettan nods, pouting. “And you know that, thanks to my Lord Mianaai, the Radch space is almost as huge as the universe itself.” Ettan nods again, but she pouts harder. She isn’t stupid. “So know as well, my child, that some Radchaai like their tea with garlic and butter, and enjoy the smell of wet leaves in their cup.”

“But…” Ettan pauses, frowning.

What mother says makes sense. Just a few days ago senior mother allowed Ettan to view the starcharts of the Radch space in her study, and the map of their sector alone filled in the whole room. There are millions of inhabited planets out there, and it is possible – if disgusting – that someone likes their tea with butter and garlic. Ettan nods, takes the tray and climbs up the stairs to aunt’s room.

The very proper invitation goes mostly unnoticed, as aunt’s attention is fixed on the tea set. To Ettan’s surprise, she is invited to join her aunt. She readies herself for lots of grumbling and drinking disgusting tea with garlic, but none of these happens.

“It was your mother’s idea, wasn’t it,” aunt says as she sets the cups and flasks on the table. She doesn’t actually smile, but Ettan can see that she is pleased. “Now look here, child, and be careful – these cups are five hundred years old.”

“Really?” Ettan asks, because they don’t look like it, cheerful and glittering as they are. She is too fascinated to observe proper courtesy, and aunt clears her throat meaningfully before continuing.

“Yes, maybe even older. They have been passed in my house for generations, but no one registered when they were originally bought. They come from M’suruk, the moon of M’sarai,” she adds in a quieter voice, and raises one cup to her eyes. “Do you see the rim? Some people think it’s gold, but it’s not. It’s mekitel – do you know what it is, child?”

“A metal used for building AI cores,” Ettan replies, and looks at the tea set with even more reverence. Mekitel is _precious_ , and for a few centuries it has been exclusively used for building AI. To have it just as an adornment for tea cups is unbelievable.

“Good. Now look here, I’ll show you how we serve tea on M’sarai,” aunt says, and names all the cups and flasks, and describes the order of pouring. She tells Ettan the story of porcelain crafters of M’sarai, the art of painting with enamel, and how to spot the difference between original m’saraian items and their imitations. She explains how mekitel and gold leave a different aftertaste on the tongue, and what is the meaning of the colours and patterns used for decoration of the cups and flasks.

Ettan listens, and she feels that a whole new universe opens in front of her, just like the starchart in senior mother’s study.

*

The tea set on her tray is not something Kalr Five would usually be proud of. With all honesty – it’s probably the ugliest thing she ever served tea in, including the electric blue-and-gold nightmare from her childhood. It’s made of crude, thick plastiglass in yellowish-beige. There is a manufacturer’s stamp pressed on the bottom, and it’s clearly visible that it comes from mass production: there are small ridges where the pre-fabricates were hot-pressed together. Most of the cups are scratched and one flask is chipped at the edge. Kalr Five is very grateful for Captain Vel’s training – she might not be able to keep herself from wincing otherwise.

She received all these cups and flasks from the Surplus Magazine of the Fleet of the Radch – in all intents and purposes, the fleet’s dumpster – at her own special request. She asked a favour from her senior mother’s cousin’s patron’s sister, who is a manager there, and received two crates full of crockery, unused from decades and waiting to be melted into something else. The manager assured her that it is possible – _highly_ possible – that these items were used by ancillaries of the _Justice of Toren_ back in the day. There was even a receipt of decommission somewhere.

Kalr Five thinks she can see a flash of recognition in the eyes of the Fleet Captain. There certainly is one in the faces of all three Anaanders.

She knows her choice could not have been more proper.

*

“She is a good student,” Ettan’s teachers say. “Dedicated, attentive, industrious. She will excel at the aptitudes and bring benefit to her house.”

Senior mother nods when she hears this, but she is not proud of satisfied when she looks at Ettan’s scores. Her grades in history in physical education are good and the ones in astrography – even better. She is decent at math, but when it comes to poetry she gets her positive grades mostly thanks to submitting her work on time than to any real value of her poems. She is always in the above-average group when compared to her peers, which is a source of joy for all but senior mother.

“Yes, yes,” senior mother says dismissively, when Ettan’s supervising teacher praises her recent essay on the changes in the tea utensils design in the core Radch space in the early eras of the annexations. “But can one properly ask _what exactly_ this child will excel at, during the aptitudes? What is the path she will take?”

To this nor the supervising teacher, nor any other teachers have a good answer. They all gesture the tossing of the omens, and it makes senior mother even more irritated.

In the days that follow the meetings with the teachers Ettan is given additional tasks to work on her poetry and calligraphy skills, and sometimes math, too. Between the tens of pages of her wobbly cursive and the poor attempts to explain why Amaat is like duck in the sonnet form, there is no time to visit aunt for tea or young aunt for stories. Senior mother inspects her progress, and though she rarely comments on it, Ettan knows that the frown and the tight-lipped grimace mean nothing but disappointment. Months pass and the additional poetry and calligraphy lessons become rarer, and then stop altogether. But the disappointment never vanishes from senior mother’s eyes.

Ettan learns to live with that. Her essays on history of the Radch become better and better – one time she even gets a prize for her work on the circles of influence of various ceramic styles throughout the Radch space. She becomes the best long-distance runner in her class. She accompanies aunt during visits to other elderly ladies, makes polite conversation about tea sets she encounters there, and gets praised for her vast knowledge on the subject. Once she even receives a tea cup made of cream-white clay on a wooden leg, given to her by a charmed hostess. It’s about fifty years old and comes from Niraay; it’s handmade, but nothing terribly valuable. She treasures it nevertheless. It’s the first real tea piece in what is soon going to become a collection.

Senior mother is not happy about that either.

“Stop distracting her with all this crockery, senior sister-in-law, ” Ettan hears one day when she is about to enter aunt’s room. Senior mother rarely visits aunt – they rather orbit each other within the household. “She must learn for her aptitudes.”

“She is learning,” aunt counters, and Ettan recognises the note of condescension in her voice.

Aunt speaks like this when she reminds everyone that she is the actual owner of the household and all its assets. Senior mother may govern them and be the nominal head of the house, but it’s aunt – as the widow of the long-with-the-Goddess senior aunt – whose word is final, and whose daughter will inherit the household in the future.

“Learning what, how to be your tea-serving girl?” senior mother hisses, and Ettan automatically plasters herself to the wall, trying to hide from her ire.

“And what would you her rather be, if one can ask properly? A tea-serving girl to all customs officials in the vicinity, like you? It’s not like your aptitudes brought that much benefit to the house, sister-in-law.”

The door flings open and senior mother storms out; there are red spots on her face and her hands are balled into tight fists. She doesn’t notice Ettan, who doesn’t dare move even long after senior mother is gone from the corridor. The reason for Ettan’s visit in aunt’s room – the new exposition in the historical museum of the antique tea sets from the core of the Radch that she _needs_ to see – is forgot. Now she can think only of what she has just heard.

She knows that senior mother works hard for their silk mill to thrive, and that it means almost endless chain of officials, guests, merchants, and other important figures visiting their household and walking away with bolts of iridescent dupioni or golden tussore. She knows that it couldn’t have been easy for senior mother, strict and aloof, to find the right patrons and supporters for her business after senior aunt’s death. And she understands now that the additional lessons in calligraphy, poetry and math were supposed to prepare her to get the license and take the business over. To win the approval of the local society easier than senior mother ever could.

But it is too late now. Her aptitudes are due in less than a year, and all Ettan is good at is long-distance running and gushing over ancient teacups.

*

During a regular tea meeting, the guest of honour would sit on the right side of the hostess, at the farthest corner of the table. The second most important guest would sit at the left corner, then the next ones in the close right and close left corners, with the lesser guests seated between them. Despite all different customs which Kalr Five has encountered in her years of service, this one never changes – a tribute to Four Emanations.

The table which the guests sit at is round.

She could query Ship with whom to start, but it’s not like _Mercy of Kalr_ has got any descriptions of events like this one in its databases. There was nothing similar to the Congress of Significant Beings in the known history of the universe. She could ask Ship to pass her question to the Fleet Captain, but it would be unforgivable to bother her with such trivial matters at a moment like this. No, it is a decision Kalr Five must make herself.

It’s not like she hasn’t considered this before coming into this room. But all the ideas she might have had disappear now, when she is facing these all-powerful beings. For a second, she freezes, staring at the wall in front of her, unblinking. But then the familiar but long forgot smell of warm plastiglass hits her nose and she suddenly remembers her child tea parties with mother and young aunt, and how Pattya the oldest, ugliest, least favourite doll always was served first.

Kalr Five thinks of the omens falling, takes a deep breath, and turns to Sphene.

*

The worst thing is that no one can say anything, if they are to maintain any propriety at all. The household seems to ring with all the tension. For most of the time aunt locks herself in her room, citing a heavy migraine. Young aunt cuts all friendly chatter and throws Ettan cold looks over the family table. Senior mother suddenly notices any and all of Ettan’s shortcomings – shoulders too rounded, speech too quick, gaze too fleeting – and comments on them in sharp, commanding voice. Ettan wants to curl on the bed in her room and never go out, but she straightens up and stares ahead, pretending to be unhurt.

Mother seems happy and proud, at least, and for a moment Ettan basks in it.

“My daughter is the first one in four generations to bring such honour to our house,” mother tells everyone she meets: patrons, clients, friends, and extended family. Her smile is wide as she says so and her eyes are bright. Often there are even gentle pats on Ettan’s shoulder. “Her great-grandmother was a lieutenant on the _Sword of Devana_ and I am certain Ettan will soon rise in ranks as well.”

Mother’s happiness gives Ettan strength to suffer everyone else’s disappointment. That is until she sees mother crying her eyes out at the injustice of having her only daughter taken away on some Amaat-cursed ship, and – to her utter surprise – senior mother holding her close and whispering some nonsensical consolations in her ear.

“All is as Amaat wills it,” senior mother says, again and again.

“I know, but it’s just so – so _unfair!_ ” mother moans, and senior mother doesn’t even comment on the blasphemy, she just holds her tighter and murmurs her reassurances one more time.

For the few days between the announcement and her scheduled departure Ettan focuses on keeping her posture upright and her gaze unwavering. She still has no idea how she landed a position at the Fleet of the Radch. She has never even been off-planet before. But she isn’t going to bring up her doubts with the Aptitudes Office. It would only make the clerks there suspicious about her loyalty to the Radch, and that could hardly be beneficial to anyone.

Since she isn’t going to bring it up with any of her mothers or aunts either, she would have to take the question with her up into the space.

Much to her surprise, it’s senior mother who sees her out through the household gate. Mother, aunt and young aunt all say their blessings, warnings, and well-wishes, but they stay at home, waving her goodbye. But senior mother walks silently beside her, as is the custom. She carries the small bag with these few personal items Ettan is allowed to have: a small marble figurine of Amaat given to her by their patron, a holograph with the family pictures, the cream-white teacup on a wooden leg.

“This is not what I planned for you,” senior mother says as she turns to face Ettan at the gate.

There it is – the disappointment. It makes Ettan want to hunch and avert her eyes, but she straightens herself and looks straight ahead instead. But senior mother’s face doesn’t bear it usual disappointed scowl. She seems dejected.

“I wanted you to have a calm, comfortable life. Get a place in the customs office, do simple paperwork, find yourself a sensible patron. But it seems that you are cut for bigger deeds, my child.” She embraces Ettan quickly, lightly, mindful of the bag she is still holding. “May your acts and thoughts always be just and proper, Ettan of the house Illelet, and may the Goddess pave your path with nothing but benefit.”

Ettan recites the customary reply, bows, and accepts the bag. Her vision suddenly is very blurry, but fortunately the transport is too big to miss. She puts her bag in the compartment over her head, accepts the recommended medication, and goes through the journey to the orbital station, and then to her designated ship in a drugged haze. At least her eyes dry in the meantime.

The ship – _Mercy of Kalr_ – is claustrophobic and smells of stale air and antiseptic floor cleanser. Ettan and two other new recruits are designated to the Kalr decade, the captain’s own. It sounds like an honour, but the dull faces of the current Kalr soldiers belie this. Captain Vel herself also doesn’t make a welcoming impression when she walks up to the three new soldiers, measuring them with her gaze.

“Your belongings,” she demands from each of them. When it’s her turn, Ettan – One Kalr Five, she repeats in her head, over and over – gives her package without dropping her gaze. Captain Vel pushes the holograph away with a grimace, then picks the figurine, gives it an amused look, and pushes it away as well. Then she takes the teacup and looks at it for a while. “A connoisseur of tea, are you?” She asks, but One Kalr Five knows better than to answer a question asked in such sarcastic tone. “Amaat’s grace, if you are the best recruits they had, I can but fear for the survival of the Radch!”

She sweeps all the belongings on the table to the garbage compressor. The soldier to One Kalr Five’s left makes a sound of protest, but she manages to keep her gaze up on the wall in front of her. She hears the compressor crunch and she wills the mist out of her eyes.

“Now,” Captain Vel says slowly, considering, “Five, prepare some tea. Let us see if you are indeed such a connoisseur.”

*

Sphene, the Fleet Captain, and the humans which are here on behalf of the Radch and the Republic receive the tea. It’s _Eleven Silver Bells_ , the finest blend available now on Athoek, coming from the plantations personally supervised by the Fleet Captain. The representatives of the Geck – human- and spider-shaped alike – get a foul-smelling fluid that she was told is called _poick_. There’s fish sauce for Translator Zeiat, soybean oil for Translator Muimeq, and thick, jelly-like _rrawarrairh_ for the envoys of the Rrrrrr.

Kalr Five doesn’t spill a drop as she pours. Her hands don’t shake, the cups and utensils she places on the table don’t make a single clink. The cups with _poick_ are cool to touch, the soybean oil is clear and golden like the finest honey, and the smell of the _Eleven Silver Bells_ goes up in delicate wafts of steam.

Soundlessly she puts away the tray and straightens up, eyes fixed on the wall in front of her.

“Thank you, Five. Excellent work,” Ship relays the Fleet Captain’s message in her ear. She doesn’t look at anyone, but she can feel that the mood in the room has lightened – just as it should when tea is properly served. “No one could have done this but you,” Ship says, this time for itself.

All is as Amaat wills it, and she is nothing but the dust on the surface of the universe. Kalr Five knows all this.

And yet.


End file.
